


I'll Swim And Sail On Savage Seas

by pipdepop



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur needs a hug, Charles is happy to provide, Fluff, M/M, Soft cowboys, gratuitous use of low lighting, literally just fluff with a smidge of plot, short n' sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 11:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20975258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipdepop/pseuds/pipdepop
Summary: Arthur has a horrible day.Charles makes him feel better.





	I'll Swim And Sail On Savage Seas

**Author's Note:**

> I can't sleep, so I wrote this (so apologies for any and all errors!)
> 
> T-rating is for implied smutty thoughts, but nothing happens in this fic. But thought I'd better slap the T on it just to be safe. Title is from 'For the Dancing and the Dreaming' from the How To Train Your Dragon 2 soundtrack (look it's one of the sweetest and most romantic songs ever okay?)

Arthur is cold. 

Arthur is tired. 

Arthur is sore.

Arthur is fuming.

After they burned the Gray’s tobacco fields, the whole damn county was on high alert. He’d gone out hunting that morning before the sun was up, knowing he’d have to find, kill, butcher and cook the meat before bringing it back to camp. Rhodes deputies and bounty hunters from across the state prowled the roads – there were few times when their camp had been at such great risk of discovery as it was now. And as a result? Fire ban. No fires, no torches, no lanterns – no lights or smoke that could be spotted from a distance and give their location away. And that meant no cooking. They’d had to make do with cold canned vegetables and bread the night before. Everyone was miserable, so Arthur had been hoping to find a nice fat boar and bring back some cooked ham at least.

And he did, just before noon. Got his fire going, took great care to slice up the meat real thin, smoked it with herbs and everything. Was on his way back to camp when a rare rainstorm swept across Scarlett Meadows. He swears the damn raincloud must be following him, like in those newspaper cartoons, because the rain will just not let up. He was very quickly soaked to the skin, and worried about his ham slices even though he’d wrapped them in oilcloth, along with the dried herbs in his satchel he was bringing back for Hosea. He’d just been worrying about his old man – damp weather like this seemed to make his cough worse – when the goddamn Lemoyne Raiders had shown up. He hadn’t heard them over the rain, and had thought Atlas’ tetchiness was just because of the bad weather, and as a result the bastards had got the jump on him. In the end, it was Atlas who got them out alive, straight up mowing down a raider and his Tennessee walker and thundering down a slope that no sane horse would attempt (though, sane is not high on the list of words Arthur would use to describe his temperamental Ardennes even on a good day). When they’d finally thudded onto flat land, Arthur had swept his eyes over himself and his horse, to make sure they weren’t hurt – twisted round, and saw that his package of ham, which had been secured to his saddle bags, had fallen off at some point.

So now, he’s riding down the path to camp, after a whole day out, away from his family even though he’s worried for their safety, and with nothing to show for it.

Arthur is drenched.

Arthur is miserable.

Arthur cannot see a damn thing.

With no lights in camp, and the thick rainclouds blanketing the moon and stars, it’s near pitch black. He’d wondered how Bill had even seen him coming on the path into Clemens Point. The only reason he notices the other horses huddling under the trees near camp is because The Count is slightly luminous in whatever light there is. He tiredly swings himself off Atlas and sends him in their direction with a peppermint and a pat, before trudging over to the vague shape of his lean-to. Some kind soul has had the foresight to lower the side flaps, so his cot and belongings aren’t completely soaked. But they also block out what little ambient light there is, and it’s pitch dark inside. Arthur sighs, toes off his boots, removes his guns and satchel, dropping them down onto what he thinks is the chest at the end of his bed, and has just shrugged off his sodden jacket when something warm brushes his face.

Arthur definitely _does not_ let out a shriek. Not at all.

“Shh!” The warm thing becomes a hand, and then another, cupping his face, and Arthur can’t see his lips but he bets Charles is smiling.

“Dammit Charles! You tryna give me heart failure before forty?!” Arthur hisses.

“Sorry.” Charles replies simply, not sounding sorry at all. Arthur is about to tell him as such, but warm lips cover his own and reduce his incoming rant to a soft moan. God, Charles is so warm compared to his own chilled skin. He wants nothing more than to wrap himself around him, nestle into that broad, strong chest – but he’s well aware that he’s literally dripping, and not in the good way. He doesn’t want to get Charles all cold and damp too.

But Charles, as always, seems to read his mind, even though he’s sure he can’t even see him – warm fingers run down his throat and start on the buttons of his shirt. Arthur misses the warmth on his face, is just about to lean in for another kiss to try and make up for it, when he hears Miss Grimshaw call from the left of his tent,

“Was that you yelping, Mr. Morgan? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine Miss Grimshaw,” he calls back. “Just, uh, stubbed my toe is all!”

“Oh I’m sure. Goodnight, Mr. Morgan!” She sounds far too amused.

“I think she knows about us,” Arthur whispers worriedly. Those lovely fingers, nearly at the last button of his shirt, pause.

“Arthur. Everyone in this camp knows about us.”

“You keep sayin’ that, but how can you be sure?” he asks. Shirt buttons now undone, Charles slides his hands up his stomach and chest to his shoulders, and Arthur lets him push back his suspenders and peel the wet thing off him even as he chews his lip worriedly.

“The Reverend literally asked me if we want him to officiate our wedding.”

On the one hand, that meant Swanson was so drunk he’d forgotten marriage between men was illegal. On the other hand, if Swanson could be that sozzled and still notice, then, yeah, okay, everybody in camp must know.

“Oh.” Arthur says dumbly as Charles gets to work on the buttons of his union suit. He gets that undone to the waist, then taps at Arthur’s legs to prompt him to lift them, peeling the suit and his jeans off as one. This must be what a peeled orange feels like, Arthur muses unhappily – even his skin feels waterlogged, and raw in too many places from the chafing of wet fabric. But again, Charles reads his damn mind. Soft cloth starts running over him, along with a warm hand, and Arthur’s knees go weak – at the gentle caresses, but also at the fact that whatever energy reserves he’d had left in him are well and truly spent. Another night, when he wasn’t tired and cold and wet and sore, this might be getting him all hot and bothered. But right now, he’s swaying on his feet. 

“Charles...” he begins, apologetic, but Charles shushes him with another kiss.

“I figured you’d be in a bad way if you had to stay out in this weather. So I waited here to check you were okay,” he offers, in both explanation, and understanding – he’s not expecting anything tonight. Arthur hums in thanks, not quite sure when his eyes slipped shut, just swaying forward into Charles’ warmth, now that he’s somewhat dry. Charles brings the towel up to his hair, and Arthur groans softly as fingertips rub gentle circles into his scalp and neck. Charles seems to deem him dry enough, and he hears the soft thump as he discards the towel.

“Come on cowboy, bedtime.”

Warm hands on his hips guide him the few steps to his cot, and Arthur reaches out a hand, blindly feeling his way to the edge. He sinks down, and it’s only Charles tapping at his legs again that make him shift and pull them up – otherwise he might have just fallen over sideways without bothering. God knows, he feels like he could sleep standing up right now. He shifts right back until he can feel the wood of the wagon at his back – the cot weren’t made for two people, let alone two people of their build. But that just gives Arthur an excuse to snuggle – one which he absolutely takes advantage of when Charles settles beside him, own shirt and jeans discarded. Charles wraps an arm under him, and Arthur settles on his chest, reveling in the warmth and the strong, steady beat of Charles’ heart beneath his cheek. Wonders what he did to deserve something so wonderful.

“How many times do I have to tell you? You deserve happiness, Arthur.”

Oops, he must’ve mumbled that last bit aloud. But Charles’ fingers are lightly stroking up and down his back, and he’s too far gone to apologise. Just lets out a sleepy hum and nestles even closer.

The rain, a source of utter misery not half an hour ago, is now a soft patter on the canvas, combining with Charles’ heartbeat to make a song more soothing than any lullaby.

Arthur is warm.

Arthur is safe.

Arthur sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> I could probably put nearly all my fics into a series, 'Arthur falls asleep on people'. But our boy deserves more cuddles!
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
